


Kintsugi

by Verasteine



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Movie, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 15:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine
Summary: In Istanbul, the dark circles under Napoleon's eyes don't seem to fade, Gaby starts questioning whether they are really a team at all, and it comes down to Illya to keep them all together.





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a post-movie fic in this fandom, but never really had an idea for one. Then one night I was talking with Eumelia, she schooled me on political correctness, and an idea was born. Even more surprising, I pulled it off. So this 12K is completely your fault, bb. 
> 
> Much gratitude to her, for yelling at me that first time and when I went off the rails where Illya Kuryakin was concerned, and then allowing me to yell back at her because I don't understand humans. 
> 
> Equally much gratitude to hairyintent for watching the film with me and betaing this fucker to within an inch of its life. And lastly, my tweeps who weighed in on Americanisms, ESL speakers, and the impossibility of Illya using sports metaphors. You all rock.

The stewardess smiles broadly as she stops by their row, but her eyes are only on Napoleon. He'll have to get used to that, but he won't mind, Illya thinks, as he listens vaguely to their exchange. He's tired after missing sleep and the flight is too short to catch up on it, so he tries to doze, only opening his eyes when the girl finally disengages herself from Napoleon and says, "And for you, sir?"

"Pardon?"

"She's asking what you want to drink, Peril."

Illya's head still vaguely throbs and the scotch they had at the hotel was, in hindsight, a bad idea. "Just water, thank you."

She nods, her smile not as wide as it had been for Napoleon, but when Illya glances over, he sees Napoleon is already staring out the window, ignoring her entirely. 

\--

When they arrive in Istanbul it's late and feels later. Gaby leads them to a car and drives them to their hotel, where they check in in a subdued lobby. He notes the hotel caters to the West, styled in Western fashions to lure in American tourists. 

He's grateful when given a room key and left to his own devices. Napoleon is just down the hall from him and they share a quiet smile and a nod as they unlock their doors. "See you in the morning, Peril."

"Goodnight, Cowboy." The nicknames are habit now, and he finds with a small private joy that he likes it. 

He ignores the opulence of the room, setting his suitcase down on a table and unlocking it. It's second nature to reassemble the gun stashed in the extra compartment, to sweep the room for bugs, check the windows and bathrooms and note the access and egress points. He wants sleep, but he's not careless. 

Once sufficiently reassured of the room's relative safety, he goes to the bathroom. The light above the mirror highlights the sallow colour of his skin and the graze on his face that'll take another week to heal. It doesn't show the aching of his head. He strips off his clothes, revealing the mottled bruises on his chest, and inspects them. A deep contusion over his ribs on his left side is still tender, and if pressed to fight in the next few days he should be careful to favour it. 

Satisfied that he's fit enough, he showers quickly and changes into pyjamas before getting into bed, slipping the gun under the second pillow just in case. 

\--

When he wakes it's after a good night's sleep, sore and stiff. He takes his time stretching the tension out of his muscles, pushing past the aches and pains. It's not serious enough to take him off this job. His head feels clear, a small relief in a larger picture. 

He makes his way downstairs, finding Gaby already at a table. "Sleep well?" she says. 

He finds a smile for her. "Yes. You?"

"Better than I have for a while," she replies, smiling back. 

Illya feels a fondness for her, and it's better that way, less complicated. He knows his own weaknesses, and Gaby brought them out unerringly in Rome. Napoleon Solo saw that in him; as much as the man is irritating, he is also competent. 

Gaby is frowning at him and he covers his momentary lack of attention by helping himself to coffee. "Good," he says. He stirs sugar into his coffee in silence, until Napoleon walks into the room, dressed as always in impeccable, well fitting clothes that Illya appraises silently.

Napoleon slides into a seat, smiling pleasantly, saying, "Good morning, Peril, Gaby."

Gaby murmurs a reply while Illya is momentarily distracted by Napoleon's appearance; up close, the bruise on his forehead, the lines around his mouth, the circles under his eyes, they speak of the hardships they've all been through, but more pronounced on him than on either Illya or Gaby. 

"Cowboy," he says finally, and watches as Napoleon pours himself coffee, taking it with only a little cream, sipping it and sighing in satisfaction. 

\--

The rest of the day, the briefing on an arms dealer who is supplying to terrorists, the surveillance, studying their targets' files, it's all in day's work, easy and familiar. There is time, thankfully, not as much pressure on this mission as on the previous one, which means they can get another night's sleep without having to steal out of bed for work. 

He catches Gaby glancing at Napoleon throughout the day, and he sees what she does; Napoleon is quiet, moving stiffly, favouring himself in a way that he didn't in Rome. When he excuses himself early at dinner, Gaby says, "Is he up to this, do you think?"

Illya watches the tired slope of Napoleon's shoulders as he starts on the stairs, and looks at her. She's smarter and better trained than she initially appeared, and he already knows he is going to appreciate her as a colleague. "Cowboy will heal."

"Will he, or are you just saying that because you boys stick together?"

Illya doesn't say that Napoleon has been through more than she knows, these past few days, keeping his silence because he owes Napoleon his life. He looks at Gaby, hardening his eyes just a little so she knows he considers this the final words on this topic. "We are all still healing. We're professionals. It will pass."

She takes his message and nods. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning." 

To his surprise, she leans in to kiss his cheek, but he finds himself turning into the gesture, smelling her perfume as her lips graze his skin. It's intimate but nothing more, and he appreciates the effort she makes to settle them into friendship. "Sleep well, Chop Shop Girl."

She smiles at the nickname. "Goodnight, Illya."

\--

He goes up after settling the bill, going to his suitcase to finish the unpacking he didn't complete last night. There isn't much to unpack, but he does it all the same, sweeping the room again for bugs while he's working. Nothing turns up, which confirms his suspicions about Napoleon's state of mind, and he tucks the bug sweeping device back behind the double panel in his case. 

It bumps into something, the sound of plastic meeting metal, and he frowns, pulling it back out and feeling around in the compartment. His fingers close around a small plastic container, and he pulls it out. The small canister of film rolls into his palm, making him pause. 

He remembers, the frantic drive to get to Napoleon on time before he is killed, after Gaby gave them both up so casually, arriving at the location to find Napoleon tied to a chair. Illya knows what happens to spies who are caught, saw the evidence in the room with Napoleon, and it was Illya who had done the clean up, letting Napoleon have what breathing space he could. He'd retrieved Napoleon's jacket, dropped the papers from the desk into the fire once he'd learned all he could from them, along with the photo album he didn't think anyone needed to see ever again. Out of habit, he'd rewound the film in the camera and popped it into its canister, pocketing it for later study in case it contained necessary evidence. 

They completed the mission without there being time or necessity to revisit the film, and now it sits in his palm, containing its secrets until Illya looks. 

He takes a deep breath, ignoring the twinge on his left side as he does so. He knows what he should do, and he finds himself moving before he can choose to do anything else, collecting the bottles and trays that he needs and heading for the bathroom. 

\--

His fingers are steady as he works, moving through familiar motions without seeing what he is exposing. He strings lines and clips photographs to it, letting them dry under the soft red light while he develops the next strip of film, and the next. Halfway through the fourth strip, the film comes up blank, and he holds the rest up against the light to make sure, but it confirms there are no more pictures on the roll.

He clips the last two prints to the line, and carefully disposes of the chemicals and rinses out the trays, drying them and stacking everything away for future use. He finds his fingers tapping against his leg when he's done, the rise of emotion in his chest at the anticipation of what is awaiting him in the bathroom. 

He gets out the chess set and sets it up, playing two matches against himself before he judges it time. The world is silent at this late hour, but he hears the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, his careful breathing in his chest, keeping him company as he unclips the images, stacking them in order before putting the bathroom to rights, finally turning off the red lamp as he goes back into the bedroom. 

He spreads the images on the bed, side by side, and looks. 

He knew what he was going to see, but the anger still fists in his chest; Napoleon, tied up, in pain, eyes closed in the first two shots, then open, his gaze avoiding the camera, staring beyond it at his tormentor. The fifth image is poorly lit, but it still shows the beginning of the nosebleed Napoleon hadn't been able to staunch until an hour after, refusing Illya's help when he tried to offer. 

The seventh image catches something Illya had seen that day just before he walked into the room; the resignation on Napoleon's face, the quiet determination to suffer this silently until he dies. In none of the images he appears to make a sound, no screaming or crying, stoically bearing what he must have assumed would be the end. 

Illya has a lot of respect for Napoleon, all of it hard won, but this time it comes easy. 

His fingers, no longer steady, touch the eleventh image; Napoleon's hair falling over his forehead, mouth slightly open as he's catching his breath. It's a moment between, or a moment after, his suffering recorded for the enjoyment of the man who held the control of the camera shutter. 

Illya wishes he had had the chance to kill him. 

His hands shake as he gathers the photos and the negatives, carefully slipping them into the secret compartment in his suitcase, and he crushes the film roll and the canister under his boot before putting the remnants into the wastepaper bin. 

He doesn't want to stop there. He wants to shatter the desk, feel it splinter under his hands, wants to feel the bite of the wood in his palms until there is nothing left but tinder, and then start all over again with the chair. He struggles for air, filling his lungs while his hands ache with the desire to let go, to push all his anger into destruction. He digs his fingers into his palms until they hurt, breathes in and out until his ribs ache, bends over and squeezes his eyes shut until he sees stars instead of the images in the pictures. 

It takes a long time until he calms, exhaustion following on its heels, and he lies down in bed until sleep finally claims him. 

\--

He wakes in the morning on too little sleep and goes through his morning routine automatically, meets his partners for breakfast, answering their polite inquiries monosyllabically. Gaby gives him a quick glance. Napoleon frowns, then spends entirely too much time staring into his coffee as he stirs it. It wakes Illya from his reverie, his hand twitching with a desire to reach out and stop him, to take his hand and squeeze it and maybe send him upstairs and back to bed. 

His thoughts skitter to a halt and he switches his attention to Gaby. "Are we all set for today?"

She blinks at his change of topic, but nods. "Yes. I have the equipment ready."

Napoleon sips his coffee, closing his eyes as he smiles at the taste. Illya doesn't think coffee tastes all that good, but Napoleon has an appreciation for strange things. "Good," Napoleon murmurs. "Let's hope we can wrap this up soon."

"No need to rush, Cowboy," Illya says, trying to slow him down because they aren't remotely close to the end of this mission. 

Napoleon gives him an irritated look that Illya ignores entirely.

\--

The surveillance keeps them in a rhythm, work during the day time, then dinner, then downtime. That evening, when Napoleon says goodnight, he still looks worn. Gaby watches silently as Napoleon walks away, again the first to turn in. Illya looks where she does before looking away from Napoleon's retreating form and confronting her gaze. She meets his look with a raise of her eyebrow. 

"It's nothing," Illya says, heading her off. 

Gaby presses her lips together. "It's nothing? You've been looking like you swallowed something distasteful around him ever since we checked in."

She's projecting; she's the one who's been irritated by Napoleon's general appearance and lapses since they became apparent. Illya considers disabusing her of the notion but decides against it. "It's nothing," he repeats. "I will handle it."

"See that you do, or I will. You know where this mission is going. If we're dealing with a takedown in a few days and he's still looking like he hasn't slept..."

"Do nothing," Illya orders. Napoleon respects Gaby but he wouldn't respect her judgement. Illya understands her nervousness; she is still mostly untested and leaning on their experience. "He will be ready, or I will take him off the job."

Gaby's face softens. "He won't take that well."

"Better he gets angry with me than you."

She nods. "Thank you," she says. 

He finds a smile for her. They come easier when it's Gaby, who always played as fair as she could. "We will take care of you."

She rolls her eyes a little at that. "I can take care of myself."

"Good," he replies. "I shall look in on Cowboy before he's asleep. Sleep well."

This time he leans in to kiss her cheek, and she smiles as he straightens up. "Goodnight."

\--

He knocks on Napoleon's door, trying to figure out what he'll say, waiting until Napoleon opens the door, and then the words flee entirely. He's already dressed for bed, in silk pants and robe, his hair falling a little over his forehead as he frowns, puzzled. "Did I forget something?"

"No," Illya says. "I wanted a word."

Napoleon glances down the hallway before opening the door wider. "Come in."

He steps into the room, a carbon copy of his own, and looks around. Napoleon's suitcase stands unpacked by the table and there is a book on his nightstand. The light is on in the bathroom, spilling onto the carpet in bright stripes. 

Napoleon shuts the door behind him and says, "So, what can I do for you, Peril?"

He turns back to Napoleon. The dark circles under his eyes are taking their time to recede, as if maybe Napoleon hasn't been sleeping that well in spite of their uninterrupted nights. The bruise on his forehead is fading to green-yellow, marring his face in a way that sits wrong in Illya's gut. "I wanted to ask..." All the ways to finish that sentence sound ridiculous in his own head before he has even spoken them aloud. 

"Yes?"

He takes a breath, looking at Napoleon's soft expression, his unguarded posture, not buttoned up against the world and not caring that Illya sees him that way. Then Illya steels himself and shatters it. "I have something that should be yours."

Napoleon's eyebrows go up. "Are you into stealing now, Peril?"

"I did not steal from you," he says, his throat closing. 

"So what is it?" Napoleon is already straightening up, shoulders going back into the posture he uses to project himself to the world. 

"It's in my room." He gestures and goes to the door, and Napoleon follows. Illya lets him in silently and heads for his case, fiddling with the compartment until he can access the pictures and the negatives. He turns silently and holds them out. 

Napoleon takes them from his outstretched hand and flips them over, and then his face goes utterly blank. He flips through the stack quickly and then counts the negatives before looking up at Illya. "How did you get these?"

Illya meets his eyes. "I took the film. When I went to get your jacket. I thought we might need it."

"Who did you give them to?"

"No one. I developed them myself and when I saw what they were, I put them away until I could give them to you."

Napoleon's voice is hard when he says, "Why?"

Illya thinks about that a moment before replying, "Because it's right you know I saw them. Because you should be the one to destroy them."

Napoleon nods, his face still completely devoid of any expression. "Thank you."

He turns on his heel and leaves the room, and Illya knows with utter certainty there is nothing he can do to stop him. 

\--

"This is what you call handling it?" Gaby hisses as soon as Napoleon walks into the breakfast room, twenty minutes late and looking ill. 

Illya can't tell her the truth, so he settles for wincing at the sight of their partner, sliding slowly and unsteadily into his seat.

"Coffee," Napoleon murmurs. "I seem to be rather unwell this morning."

Illya pours him a coffee, adding the cream, stirring it. Gaby says, "Do you have no self control?"

Napoleon glances at Illya, his eyes hard and cold. "There were... extenuating circumstances."

Illya pushes the coffee towards him as he says, "You should take the day off."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll be fine after I eat something."

"Oh, really?" Gaby says mockingly. 

Napoleon turns his gaze on her. "I've done jobs like these in far worse conditions. I'll be fine."

It's clear those are his final words on the subject, in spite of Gaby's appealing look to Illya. He's not about to tell Napoleon not to come on their stakeout, and Napoleon would be unlikely to listen and instead pop up somewhere he shouldn't be to prove them wrong and jeopardise their plans. 

Napoleon eats slowly but seems much recovered by the time breakfast is done, though Illya itches to ask him if he got any sleep at all. He doesn't, instead taking charge; Illya isn't about to bet any of their lives on the quality of Napoleon's current attention span. 

Napoleon replies to any inquiry from him with curt answers, and chats amicably with Gaby while they observe and collect information. Illya isn't new to being frozen out, but it takes on a stinging, pathetic quality as the day progresses that makes his hands twitch. 

He takes a few deep breaths and tries to focus; he's the only one with enough experience and sleep to keep between them and exposure. When they finally pack up for the day, Napoleon says casually, "Don't bother waiting on me for dinner, I'll sort myself out."

He disappears before Illya can think of something to say to stop him, and with that the fracture between them sets. Gaby looks at him and says, "What did you do?"

Illya is too tired to think of a cover. "I can't tell you."

"Whatever it is between you, it needs to stop."

He nods, still looking at where Napoleon left. 

"Illya, I mean it." Gaby's voice goes from angry to serious. "One more day of this, and I'm calling Waverly and tell him he made an error in judgement."

They wouldn't get a second chance. Illya would be sent back to Moscow, Napoleon to New York, to the man who is holding the leash. It sits uneasily with him, now that he knows Napoleon better. He thinks about making Gaby promises, but he's done that already and failed to live up to them. Worse, he knows she's right. "Okay," he says quietly. "One more day."

\--

He waits up, sitting near the door to listen for Napoleon's footsteps. He plays chess, losing count of how many games he wins and loses, of the way he pitches the battles and tests strategies against themselves. 

Napoleon Solo had been a complication while Illya was still busy trying to wrestle his way through the politics of their first mission. But while he had been worrying about how to keep Gaby at arm's length, Napoleon had slipped under his defences. Napoleon saved his life, bringing Illya up for air, forcing water from his lungs that had burned coming up, holding him afloat until Illya could carry his own weight in the water. He remembers those sweet two minutes in Napoleon's arms with a flush of heat to his cheeks. 

And then Illya had saved Napoleon, and Napoleon cannot forgive a witness to his suffering. 

It's better this way. Illya sets aside the chess board and leans his head against the wood of the door to continue waiting.

\--

His watch shows it's seven minutes past one when Napoleon's footsteps come down the hall. He pauses in front of his door, Illya hears the hotel key clicking against the plastic label affixed to the ring, and then Napoleon's door opens. 

He scrambles to his feet and slips out of his own room, taking four long strides across the hall to catch Napoleon's door just before it closes. He pushes it open without a word, and then has to jump aside when Napoleon tries to shove it back into his face. 

"Cowboy, it's me," Illya whispers, letting the door go entirely. 

Napoleon's breathing is harsh in the darkness and Illya fumbles for the light switch, finding it in the same place as in his own room. He flips the switch and sees the last of the terror fade from Napoleon's face. "Don't you knock?" he snaps angrily before sweeping imperiously from the door, away from Illya and further into the room. 

"Sorry," Illya says honestly. "Wasn't sure you'd let me in if I knocked."

Napoleon shrugs out of his coat. "Probably not."

The harshness of his tone makes Illya wince. "We need to talk."

"I'm done talking."

"Gaby wants to split us up."

It doesn't have the man-stopping power he was hoping for, but Napoleon does pause for a brief moment. "That may not be such a bad idea."

"Is that what you want? Back to CIA?"

He watches Napoleon's face go blank again. "If it gets me away from you."

Illya balls his hands to fists. "I didn't hurt you."

Napoleon looks at him, but doesn't argue with his words. "I need a drink."

"You drink too much."

Napoleon's voice drips with disdain. "You know, Peril, right now I'm not in the mood to be lenient about your commentary on how I conduct myself."

"If you wish to fight, we can fight," Illya shoots back. 

"So you can show me you'll win?" Napoleon shakes his head. "Once was enough, thank you." He goes over to the bar, pouring himself a glass too full of scotch, and sips it. 

Illya watches him, the exhaustion that is in every line of his face, the way he's fighting with the last shreds of his dignity. He doesn't know how to manoeuvre them out of this death spiral; the more Illya pushes, the more Napoleon lashes out. The silence becomes oppressive. "Whatever you wish to do after," Illya says slowly, "we need to finish the mission."

"I'm not the one putting the mission in danger."

" _Pizdezh._ " Illya lets his anger seep through this time. "You are injured, fine. You have trouble sleeping, also fine. You drink yourself into a stupor and put Gaby in danger, not fine."

"So that's what this is all about?" Napoleon smiles, razor sharp. "You know, I don't think she's really your type. She seems to have lost that doe eyed look she had around you at first."

It stings, as Illya recognises Napoleon fully intended it to. It goads his anger and he strides towards Napoleon, who keeps that bland smile on his face the whole time and just watches him, never moving. 

He wants everything in that moment, wants Napoleon splayed out on the floor from Illya's fist to his face, he wants to push Napoleon into the wall, trapping him there so Illya can-- Sanity holds him back just in time, pausing twenty centimetres from Napoleon's face, breathing hard while his fingers itch. 

Napoleon tilts his head a little and regards him, like he did something unexpected. Illya reaches out and takes the glass from Napoleon's hand. "This? No."

Napoleon's eyes glitter dangerously. "You really don't get to tell me what to do, Peril."

"Someone should. So I do." He pulls back, summoning all of his fortitude to turn his back to Napoleon and carry the glass to the bathroom, pouring the contents down the sink. He returns to the room to find Napoleon still standing by the bar, hand half outstretched towards the bottle of scotch, suspended in the motion by an unseen force. 

Illya's breath catches, but Napoleon doesn't move, doesn't finish what he started. Finally, Illya says softly, "I did not mean to hurt you."

Napoleon's head comes up. "You..."

"I didn't know. It was habit. Take evidence, preserve, destroy what we do not need. You did same with the disc." That infernal disc that nearly broke the balance between them. Illya thinks about how close he came to pulling a gun on Napoleon, to killing him just to bring Oleg what he asked for, like Illya always does. 

Napoleon nods, but stays silent. 

"Cowboy..." Illya goes over to wrap his hand around Napoleon's, ignoring the fine tremors under Napoleon's skin, pulling him away from the display of alcohol. "It passes. It fades."

"Yes," Napoleon says. "Until the next time."

Those words open up a whole other view into Napoleon's predicament, the way you could treat a man you keep on a leash such as his, the way damage to property doesn't matter the same as damage to people. Illya's anger flashes bright, pushing the air from his lungs. He sucks it back in, his bruised ribs aching. "No next time," he says, catching Napoleon's gaze as it searches for his, "not when you're with me, Cowboy. Not if you stay."

Napoleon doesn't say anything at all, his eyes tired. Illya pulls Napoleon to him until Napoleon closes the last of the distance between them and settles his head against Illya's shoulder. Illya keeps him there, letting him anchor himself until Napoleon steadies again. He clears his throat, and Illya speaks before Napoleon can. "Come. You should be in bed."

Napoleon laughs, dry and humourless. "Intending to put me to bed? Usually I demand dinner or at least drinks before we get that far."

Illya shakes his head, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "You have tantrum like a child, I put you to bed like a child."

Napoleon's expression shutters. Illya ignores it and leads Napoleon to the bed. His pyjamas are neatly folded and waiting there. He reaches down to undo the buttons on Napoleon's waistcoat, and Napoleon says, "I can undress myself."

Illya nods, stepping back to let him. He moves away to give Napoleon privacy, pulling the curtains and returning the bar to order, closing the doors to remove the liquor from sight. When he's done, Napoleon is changed into the pants and robe, looking at him with a frown. "I'll be fine now, Peril."

Illya shakes his head. "You have not been sleeping well."

"Nothing you can do about it, since you won't let me have a drink."

"I will stay here." He sits on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off, and then he takes the place besides Napoleon, moving the pillows until he can lean back comfortably. Napoleon stares at him like he's not sure Illya is serious, but if he didn't want him there, he would have told him so. Illya thoughtlessly reaches over stroke a hand through Napoleon's hair. 

They both freeze, Napoleon looking at him for a silent moment, but then he leans in to the touch, shifting to settle his head against Illya's hip, closing his eyes while Illya keeps watch. 

\--

Napoleon starts awake no less than three times. 

Illya dozes, enough rest to be able to function the next day, the light sleep he learned as a soldier that he can wake from in an instant and be alert. The first time Napoleon wakes, a soft gasp, his eyes flying open, Illya says, voice soft, "Is alright, Cowboy."

He can see Napoleon settle, his breathing slowing as he comes back to himself, and Illya gives him a few seconds before reaching over and stroking Napoleon's hair from his face. It doesn't take long for him to slide back into sleep. 

The second time, he starts twitching before he wakes, and Illya is already alert, already talking to him by the time he surfaces. "Is Istanbul, not Rome. Everything is okay. Sleep." Napoleon murmurs something, sleepily, and Illya soothes him, stroking his beautiful curls until Napoleon loses consciousness. 

The third time, it's already morning, light peeking around the curtains. Illya is awake, wishing for coffee, but unwilling to move. Napoleon's skin is pale in the dawn light, the circles under his eyes dark and violent. Then Napoleon's eyes open and look straight at him, and Illya can see the unguarded horrors there before Napoleon pulls away. 

"Morning, Peril." He sits up, rolling his neck and his shoulders to loosen the tension, and Illya hears the joints pop. Napoleon slides out of bed and heads for the bathroom. "I'm going to have a shower. You may want to get back to your room before the hotel wakes and someone catches you here. We'll have more explaining to do than would be... convenient."

Illya nods, getting up and collecting his shoes. 

"Peril?" He looks up to find Napoleon still in the bathroom doorway. "Thanks for the guard duty. It helped."

Illya smiles. "You're welcome."

Napoleon nods and disappears into the bathroom, and Illya takes himself back down the hall. 

\--

He undresses and showers and doesn't think about the night before. It is the dangerous glitter of an icy surface and Illya is going to go down hard if he steps on it, slipping and falling or sinking through the ice. He folds the knowledge away as he dries off and dresses, making his way down the stairs to the breakfast room to find Gaby reading the paper, looking deceptively calm. He doesn't miss the way she anxiously searches his face. He smiles at her. "Is better this morning."

She breathes out a slow, controlled breath. "Good."

Napoleon appears as Illya is pouring coffee and he pours another out of habit, adding cream and sliding it over in time for Napoleon to slip into his seat. "Oh, thank you, Peril," he says with a smile. "Good morning, Miss Teller."

Gaby smiles back widely. "Good morning, Mr Solo."

Illya sips his coffee, watching quietly as Napoleon takes the first sip of his own coffee and sighs in satisfaction.

\--

They wrap up their surveillance and start to work on a plan to break up the ring of weapons smugglers, strategising in Napoleon's room. The liquor cabinet stays firmly shut while they pour over blueprints and debate the merits of points of attack. There is little in the way of local backup and their moves need to be strategic, and Illya tries to look at it from many different angles but comes back to the same conclusion each time. "We need someone on the inside to let us in."

"That would be me," Napoleon says. 

Illya looks up from the blueprints to meet his eyes, and he reads in them the same as he knows is in his own; they both have concluded there is no other option. "Can you do it?"

Napoleon nods. "There's two possibilities. I could charm the secretary on her lunch break; she holds the keys to the office and it'll be easy enough to make an imprint. Or I could try to break in via the roof, but we don't seem to have complete information about what I'll encounter in terms of locks and security."

Illya suspects there isn't a lock Napoleon can't pick in under two minutes, but security is another matter and he prefers the easier method. "The secretary."

Napoleon nods. "Seems the right idea. Once I have the key I can go in through the front door and let you in through the back. We'll get the proof and act on that information when we have it."

"Waverly says that he's got enough local contacts that owe him a favour that if we get the proof, he can force the authorities into action," Gaby adds. 

It's a plan and a good one, and Illya folds the blueprints carefully. It still sits uneasily with him, sending Napoleon into the field in the state that he's in, but he can't decide for him, and he's aware that his own judgement may be compromised. Napoleon seems untroubled, their plan solid, and Illya lets the feeling slide and settle into a whisper at the back of his mind. 

The day passes with only mundane tasks, the rest of the mission set for tomorrow, and Illya doesn't know what to do when the evening approaches. They have a companionable dinner together, Napoleon regaling Gaby with spy stories that are at least half fiction, and Illya is polite enough not to point that out. 

When the hands on his watch slide past ten, Napoleon starts flagging, fingers playing idly with his dessert spoon, but he loses his thread in the conversation. Illya watches for a few minutes, then says, "Go to bed, Cowboy."

Napoleon's head comes up, and he nods, slowly standing. "You're right, I'll take my leave." He hesitates, adds, "Goodnight, Peril, Miss Teller."

Gaby sketches a salute at him, and Illya watches Napoleon wind his way out of the room. He is stalling, going slowly even though he is tired. It doesn't take much to know why, and Illya feels something tug at him, anchoring him to Napoleon.

Gaby breaks the silence between them. "I should turn in as well. Big day tomorrow."

Grateful for the excuse, Illya agrees. "Yes. Goodnight." He signals for the check before leaning towards Gaby to let her kiss his cheek. 

\--

He goes up and knocks on Napoleon's door without any pretence he was ever going to do something else. Napoleon answers, already changed, his hair damp and curling over his forehead. Illya has to tear his gaze away. 

"Peril."

"Want me to come in?"

For a moment, he thinks Napoleon may tell him no, but then he wordlessly steps aside and closes the door behind Illya. They stand there looking at each other. "I would offer you a drink, but you frown upon those."

He smiles because he knows Napoleon meant it as a joke, even though it's not funny. "Do you wish me to stay?"

Napoleon's face shutters and Illya can see in spite of that; Napoleon trying to say no when he wants to say yes. "If you feel the need to stay," he hedges finally. 

Illya wants to reach out and hold him and not let go till morning, but it's a bad idea, a worse idea than what he is already doing. "I will stay."

"Okay. I was just..." Napoleon gestures towards the bathroom and goes back to it, and Illya takes off his shoes. He piles the pillows back into place and settles on the bed, and when Napoleon comes out of the bathroom, he switches off the light and leaves only one small lamp on.

"Come," Illya says softly. 

Napoleon slides into bed, lying on his back this time. Illya looks over at him, but Napoleon has closed his eyes. 

\--

He doesn't sleep, staying tense next to Illya, keeping Illya too alert to rest. After half an hour has passed, Illya decides it's been long enough. "Cowboy, do you want me to go?"

Napoleon opens his eyes and looks at him. "No. Last night was... the first full night's sleep I had since Rome."

"But you can't sleep now."

"No. Sorry, I really do appreciate the offer."

Illya considers their respective positions and shifts until he's lying down. "Come here."

"Are we getting romantic now?" Napoleon quips. 

"This is not romantic," Illya retorts. Impatience makes him reach out and tug on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon shifts slowly, still looking bemused until Illya has him tucked against his side, head pillowed against Illya's arm. 

Napoleon rearranges the covers around himself. "I've got to say," he murmurs, "you make a good argument for partnerships." Illya laughs softly, recklessly reaching out to card his fingers through Napoleon's hair. "You're starting to develop a fixation," Napoleon adds. 

"Go to sleep," Illya replies, watching Napoleon's eyes slide shut. His breathing evens out and he is asleep in ten minutes. 

\--

He sleeps for four hours, then comes awake with a gasp. Illya is awake instantly. "Is okay, Cowboy. Istanbul, not Rome."

Napoleon pushes up on his elbow and wipes his hand over his face. He pulls his knees up under the covers and leans his head on them. Illya sees tear tracks in the low light, his fingers itching to touch. 

Finally, Napoleon lifts his head. "That was unpleasant." 

He looks small in the bed, and Illya reaches out, cupping Napoleon's cheek to make him look at Illya, feeling stubble against his palm. Napoleon closes his eyes, leaning into Illya's hand. He rubs his thumb over the tear tracks until they fade. "What can I do?"

"Nothing to be done. You're doing enough already. It passes, like you said." Napoleon opens his eyes and looks at him, open and honest. 

"Will you sleep?"

"I'll have to," Napoleon says, resigned. 

Illya's fingers twitch, and he covers it by moving his hand, running fingers through Napoleon's hair. 

"You really do have a fixation."

Illya pulls his hand back. "Sorry."

Napoleon stretches out again, settling himself in the crook of Illya's arm. "Not complaining, Peril. Never that."

\--

Illya thinks he sees the glimmers of dawn before Napoleon drifts back to sleep, and he stays awake, staring at the ceiling. He should sleep, but it's no longer possible. Napoleon is warm against his side, legs tucked against Illya's, his head cutting off the blood flow to Illya's arm, but he doesn't need Napoleon to move. 

Napoleon sleeps quietly without moving, and Illya doesn't look at him, knows what he'll see. When Napoleon wakes it's light out, and he pulls away and sits up, running a hand through those dark curls. "Morning, Peril."

Illya sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, searching for his shoes. "Good morning. I better go."

He hears Napoleon shift. "Yes," he replies after a beat of silence. "Thank you again."

He looks over his shoulder. "You're welcome," he replies, before lacing up his shoes and leaving. 

\--

They start the day slowly, breakfasting late before going over their plan one more time. Napoleon seems relaxed, sipping his coffee and paying attention to what Gaby and Illya are saying. Illya drinks an extra cup of coffee of his own; a sleepless night doesn't bother him, and this is only half of one, but it's not a bad idea all the same. 

When they finally set out, Gaby and Illya in their rented car, Napoleon in a taxi on his own, they trail him easily to where the company secretary takes her usual lunch break. Illya considers that she may not show; after all, surveillance for less than a week is no guarantee of how often people stick to their routines, but it will have to do. They can't account for every variable. They sit in the car and wait, watching as Napoleon enters the restaurant.

"Penny for them," Gaby says. 

He looks over at her. "Too cheap," he replies deadpan. 

She laughs. "I should know better than to try and bribe a communist." He makes a face at that, but takes it in the spirit it was intended. "Solo seems to be doing better."

Illya feels colour creep up to his cheeks, so he makes it a point to stare out the window at the restaurant. "I told you we would be fine."

"Two days ago he wasn't speaking to you."

"We had argument. We settled argument."

"That seems to be how it works between you two." Gaby sits up. "There she is."

The secretary, a woman of average looks in her late twenties with no engagement or wedding ring on her finger, is a perfect target for Napoleon. They listen in on the bugs Napoleon is carrying as he charms her, first in English, then switching to French when it turns out that's a language they have in common. He makes his apologies for something, Illya imagines he bumped into her or some such in order to have a reason to speak to her. 

Napoleon gets an invite to join her for lunch so easily Gaby remarks, glancing at him as she speaks, "Well, he hasn't lost his touch."

Illya shrugs. He doesn't think of what Napoleon is doing, how he'll be smiling and tilting his head when the woman speaks. He purposefully doesn't think of Napoleon's dark hair and the way it looks against the light grey of the hotel pillows, the way it looks against Illya's fair skin. He clears his throat and listens to the bugs, Napoleon's easy conversation, effortlessly charming but not put on, never too much, a delicate balance that reels her in more certainly than if Napoleon had pursued her more aggressively. 

He emerges from the restaurant fifty minutes later with a smile and a jaunt in his step and hails a taxi. They follow him back to the hotel, meeting up again in Napoleon's room. 

"Here you go." He hands the imprint to Illya, who gets to work on the process of turning it into a useable key. 

"Anything else?" Gaby says. "My French is rusty."

Napoleon pours himself mineral water from the drinks cabinet, filling two more glasses and distributing them. Illya doesn't look at the label on the bottle to find out how much this drink costs. Napoleon lights a cigarette as he sprawls in a chair. "The guard is off sick. There is no replacement. Her boss is nervous about new people."

"So it has to be tonight," Illya concludes. 

Napoleon nods. "It seems the convenient moment. Don't want the man's health to suddenly improve."

Illya sips the water, which tastes the same as water always does, and continues his delicate work. He tunes out a comment Napoleon makes about Gaby's dress, and Gaby's ensuing laughter. He needs to focus. 

\--

They rest before dinner, eating light as they wait for darkness to set in and become absolute. They leave the hotel, Gaby making an enquiry with the concierge about a good nightlife spot, and head out in the opposite direction, towards the factory district they have been spending their days in. Napoleon has folded himself into the backseat, quiet on the drive over. They park a few blocks away and go over the plan one last time, what to do and what to do if something goes wrong. Then they split up, Gaby and Illya detouring to the back of the building while Napoleon takes the copy of the key to unlock the front. 

It's quiet in this area, the only frustration the buzzing of gnats that are attracted by human flesh; Illya kills at least two in the short walk over. They wait until they're sure the street is clear, and then he boosts Gaby over the wall before following right behind her. They make their way through the shadows to the back door. Illya tunes into the bug Napoleon is carrying, listening through an earpiece, but there is no sound except for rustling and static. 

It takes long minutes before the backdoor unlocks, pushing out so they can slip inside. "Sorry," Napoleon says in a low voice. "Turns out they have different cylinders for the back door lock."

Illya nods in acknowledgement. "Let's head upstairs to the offices."

They follow Napoleon's lead, simply because this is his forte, but there is very little to look out for in this building. Illya spots no cameras or booby traps, and they find the offices easily, splitting up to search faster. 

In his earpiece, he hears Gaby swearing softly in German, complaining about how many papers these people keep. He comes across similarly thick files himself, skimming them as he searches for the patterns that indicate off the book sales, weapons, references to guns, bullets, and armaments or code words that are masquerading as such. 

It's tedious work and he hears Napoleon mutter, "What I wouldn't give for some coffee."

It makes him smile before focussing on the work again. He looks at his watch. They've been here over an hour, and though Illya has found documents and photographed them, it's not yet the damning evidence they're after. He packs the files back into place the way he found them and heads for the office Napoleon is searching. "Anything?"

Napoleon shakes his head. "We're missing something, or it isn't here."

Gaby, attracted by their voices, appears in the doorway. "Nothing on my end."

Napoleon looks around the room, steps back out into the hall and looks down the corridor. Illya recognises the look on his face; he's thinking, plotting something through. He waits, letting Napoleon's instincts guide them. 

"Peril, come out here, would you?"

Illya follows him into the hall, Gaby on his heels. "Yes?"

"This wall is too long."

At first that makes no sense, then he watches as Napoleon takes long strides to measure the length of the wall till the doorway. Illya heads back into the room and does the same. It ends too soon, a wall with cabinets in front of it stopping him. Napoleon joins him and starts fiddling with the cabinets, looking for a lever or a switch. Illya lets him work, trying to think methodically. There isn't enough room for the cabinets to be part of a moving section. Finally, he just takes hold of a cabinet and pushes. 

Napoleon's head comes up sharply. Illya's actions have revealed the beginning of an opening in the wall, and they make quick work of moving the cabinets. Gaby fits through easily, and she whistles when she gets to the other side. "We found it. There's even firearms here."

Illya passes his camera to her and hears the shutter click, the rustling of paper as Gaby works. 

"Nice thinking, Peril," Napoleon comments. 

Illya glances over, but the compliment appears genuine. "Thank you."

It's in the silence that follows that he hears it, the faint sounds still far away, but still the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He puts a finger to his lips and moves into the corridor, listening. 

Footsteps, downstairs, the tell tale signs of human presence. He hears no voices. He heads back inside, meeting Napoleon's gaze. His eyes are wide and Illya nods silently, closing the door. Napoleon whispers a warning to Gaby before they quickly move the cabinets back into place. 

The steps are getting closer, going up the stairs towards them. Napoleon is standing in the middle of the room, frozen in place, and Illya makes a quick decision. He grabs Napoleon's arm and yanks him towards the wardrobe on the other side of the room, pushing Napoleon inside before folding himself around him and shutting the door. 

They're pressed up against each other, their breathing loud in the quiet space. It smells faintly of cheap cologne and mothballs, a scent reminding Illya uncannily of his childhood. He shakes the memory, feeling Napoleon start when the door to the room opens. He squeezes Napoleon's shoulder and braces himself. If they are to be discovered, it will be up to Illya to get them out. 

His ribs ache from holding the cramped position as they wait the long seconds in limbo. Illya counts quietly in his head, making it to 97 when he hears the door shut again, the footsteps receding. Napoleon starts to move but Illya stops him. He can't know how careful his partners have been; discovery may still lie in the offices down the hall. All it takes is a dropped glove or lock pick, and Illya hasn't left anything, but Gaby or Napoleon might have. 

The footsteps recede, then come back. He can feel Napoleon tense again as the footsteps pass, fading as they head down the stairs. They are not hurried, no different in pace than before. No discovery, then. He finally allows himself to relax a little, opening the wardrobe door and stepping out. 

Napoleon follows, stretching carefully before heading over to the cabinets. They quickly move them again, allowing Gaby out of the space she was locked into. She looks a little shook up but no worse for wear. Illya holds a finger to his lips as he helps her emerge, and they lift the cabinets back into place. She passes him the camera and nods. 

"How do we get out of here?" he says, looking at Napoleon. 

"Back door," Napoleon says. "He won't be that diligent and patrol all night."

Illya doesn't point out that that is a guess; they are out of options and the longer they stay, the worse the risk. "Let's go."

\--

Their luck holds, and they sneak out of the office the same way they came in. Illya boosts Gaby back over the wall, waits for her signal, then he and Napoleon make their way over. Their car is where they left it, and Gaby slides behind the wheel. Illya claims the passenger seat, leaving Napoleon the back. Istanbul is quiet. His watch reads seven minutes past three, and he feels it now that the adrenaline is receding. 

Napoleon breaks the silence. "That didn't go so badly."

"You said guard was off sick," Illya reminds him tersely, looking over his shoulder. 

Napoleon looks sallow in the sodium lights, even though he's smiling a little. "My information wasn't perfect."

"You should be more careful."

"Relax, Peril, we got out in one piece."

It had been close, too close, and Illya hasn't forgotten Napoleon freezing up, hasn't forgotten Napoleon tense against him in the cramped closet. It sets him on edge, making his jaw clench. 

"Boys," Gaby says warningly. "We got the job done."

Illya glances at Napoleon, who looks smug now that Gaby is siding with him, and then he looks out the window and says nothing. 

\--

He heads to his own room when they get back to the hotel, taking the camera and the film, setting about developing it carefully. He's tired by the time he's done with the process, but the pictures come out well. The evidence is right there in black and white, guns, documents, names, buyers and sellers. It will give Waverly what he needs. Illya slides the images into a hotel envelope, and rolls the negatives carefully and tucks them into a fountain pen, putting it in his briefcase. He waits until it's past eight, and then heads over to Gaby's room. 

When she opens the door, she looks dishevelled, but steps aside to let him in. She hasn't bothered to put on a robe, wearing the oversized pyjamas he's seen her in in Rome. Illya hands her the envelope. 

"Were we successful?" she asks. 

He nods. "This should be all Waverly needs."

"I'll get it to him." She looks up at him, her face changing. "You should get some sleep."

"I'm fine."

She smiles briefly. "I know. You should still sleep."

\--

He takes Gaby's advice, going back to his room and heading straight to bed. Faint sounds drift up from the street as he lies there, white noise that is unfamiliar but soothing. He lets it lull him to sleep, drifting into darkness. When he wakes the sun is bright and the room is warm, making his clothes stick to his skin. He checks the time, just shy of two in the afternoon, and heads to the bathroom for a shower. 

The lukewarm water is perfect, making him briefly forget everything but this small pleasure. He closes his eyes, letting the water run over his face, washing away the night before, the past week, everything that has been weighing on him. They're done now, it's over soon. He opens his eyes, finishing his ablutions before turning off the shower. He will insist Waverly give them downtime before the next mission. They all need it. 

The mirror tells him why; the scabs on the side of his face are beginning to peel and itch. The bruises on his chest are fading from deep purple to yellow-blue, and when he presses on them, they no longer ache as acutely. He is healing, so are his partners. 

He shaves and dresses, packing up his case, getting ready for when the call comes. They are no longer needed, the rest of the job will be finished by people whose faces can be seen in daylight without recognition being a concern. 

He sits down on the sofa and sets up the chessboard. It's good to practice.

\--

When he goes down for dinner, Napoleon is already there, seated in a quiet corner, two places laid at the table besides his own. Illya takes a seat, ordering water when the waiter comes over to ask. 

"Gaby told me it's done," Napoleon says quietly when the man has left. "Just waiting for our next orders now."

Illya nods, straightening the fork by his plate. "Won't be long."

"No," Napoleon agrees with a sigh. 

Illya looks over; he looks tired again, the night mission having taken its toll. "Did you sleep?"

Napoleon raises an eyebrow, but shrugs. "I tried. It's a work in progress."

Illya's chest gives a guilty tug, but before he can think of something to say, Gaby arrives, and they both stand. 

"Miss Teller," Napoleon says in his usual suave way. 

"Mr Solo," Gaby replies equally, and she sits. Illya smiles at her across the table, and she smiles back. "We leave tomorrow," she says after she's situated her napkin in her lap. "Back to London."

"What's in London?" Napoleon asks as if he doesn't know. 

"Headquarters," Gaby says vaguely. 

Their drinks arrive and they order food, eating companionably. There is no more talk of the mission, and Gaby and Napoleon opine on food and drink, comparing various liquors from Western Europe, carrying most of the conversation. Illya thinks he won't mind that so much, either, letting them talk in favour of listening. He could get used to this. 

His watch ticks past nine, and Napoleon is picking at his dessert, the ice cream melting into a sad puddle under the half hearted actions of his spoon. Illya reaches across the table and puts his hand over Napoleon's wrist. His head comes up abruptly, and they look at each other for the space of two seconds. 

"Don't tell me to go to bed," Napoleon says. 

"You should," Illya replies contrarily. 

Napoleon's jaw sets. "There's no point, Peril."

"You need rest," Illya says. 

Napoleon smiles, wide and false. "No rest for the wicked." He pulls his wrist out of Illya's grip and digs his spoon into the sad ice cream.

\--

He finally goes up nearer ten. Gaby watches him go, shaking her head. "I told Waverly we need downtime."

"Good," Illya says. He tears his gaze away from where Napoleon went, looking at Gaby. "Good call, Chop Shop Girl."

She smiles, ducking her head a little. "I'm not blind, you know." For a moment Illya braces himself, but then she says, "He's been like this ever since Rome. I don't need to know what happened, but I know something did. Waverly has been asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Medical questions. Is he short of breath, is he dizzy, that sort of thing."

"He's fine," Illya says automatically. 

Gaby looks thoughtful. "Is he, or are you trying to shield him?" 

Napoleon had medical attention, Illya remembers him asking about a doctor when they first got to the aircraft carrier and then excusing himself and disappearing for a good while. He is a cowboy, impulsive, rash, careless, but not to those extremes. "He's fine," he repeats. He looks at Gaby. "What we do takes its toll. He will recover."

She nods. "I'll tell Waverly next time he asks." She stands, and Illya rises automatically, bending down to let her kiss his cheek. She smiles as she wipes a trace of lipstick from his skin. "Sleep well, Illya."

"Goodnight, Chop Shop Girl."

\--

He settles their bill and goes upstairs, a familiar routine that he'll miss when they go their separate ways in London, at least for a while. He hesitates, but he ends up knocking on Napoleon's door. 

It doesn't take long before Napoleon opens it. "I didn't think you were going to show up."

Illya pauses. "Do you want me to go?"

Napoleon looks at him, but finally steps aside, letting him pass. "What's one more night," he says philosophically. 

Everything about the way he moves tells Illya how tired he is, and yet he's not in bed, the sheets still made pristinely. Illya goes over and pulls them free, sitting down to take off his shoes. When he looks up, Napoleon is still standing two steps from the door, watching him. Illya raises his eyebrows at him. 

Napoleon shakes his head but comes over, sitting down on his own side of the bed. "You can't be comfortable sleeping in those clothes. I don't object if you unwind a little."

Illya shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

"Suit yourself." Napoleon slides between the sheets, lying down on his back and staring at the ceiling. They've been here before, Illya thinks, but he's not sure how to break the tension between them. He lies down as well, but doesn't close his eyes, knowing Napoleon isn't actually going to sleep. 

After a long few minutes, Napoleon shifts onto his side, looking at him. "Have you ever been so bone tired, you can't sleep?"

"Yes," Illya replies, looking over at him. 

"What do you do?" 

"Wait. Relax." Illya shrugs. "It will come if you stop wishing it, but wishes don't work like that."

"If wishes were horses," Napoleon murmurs. "I usually go for sex."

Illya looks over sharply, then laughs. "Then you shouldn't have invited me in."

"Shame," Napoleon says, but his heart isn't in it. 

Illya takes pity on him, shifting closer and reaching out to pull Napoleon towards him. "Come here, Cowboy." He arranges them both until Napoleon lies under his arm, resting against Illya's side. He knows by now what helps and this is definitely proven to work. 

"You really are wearing too many clothes for this," Napoleon says sleepily. 

Illya doesn't think at all about that comment, instead stroking Napoleon's hair because that, too, has been proven to help. 

Napoleon hums softly under his breath. "You are a strange one, Peril. But I'm not complaining."

"You just want last word," Illya tells him, and listens to Napoleon's huff of breath. It's the last sound he makes before he sleeps. 

\--

Illya wakes when Napoleon starts twitching. Keeping one arm around Napoleon, he reaches up carefully to switch on the light on the nightstand so he can see Napoleon's face. He's tense, face taut and his body tight, muscles twitching involuntarily. Illya pitches his voice low. "You're safe, Cowboy. Is okay, Istanbul."

He repeats it a few times, and for a while it seems to work, Napoleon relaxing slowly against him and sinking deeper into sleep. Then suddenly he starts awake, gasping for breath, eyes wild as he struggles against Illya's arm. 

He lets go immediately, giving Napoleon the space he needs. "Okay?" he asks after a moment. 

Napoleon sits up, leaning his elbows on his knees, breathing in and out slowly as if he's trying to get himself under control. "I'm really not enjoying this part," he says finally. 

Illya has nothing left but platitudes. "It will pass."

"I know. It always does. Not my first rodeo," Napoleon says, glancing at him. 

"But different, yes?"

Napoleon holds his gaze. "I don't usually think I'm going to die, no."

Illya remembers the photographs, images he carries in his head even if he will never share them, the resignation in Napoleon's eyes, that day. "You lived," he reminds Napoleon. 

"Just adding to the cobwebs in my head." Napoleon sighs, leaning back into the pillows. 

Illya shifts to lie on his side. He could have been too late, that day, not fast enough, not strong enough, and Napoleon would have died at the hands of a man who wasn't worth the oxygen he breathed. He looks at Napoleon, at the lines around his eyes, the strands of dark hair that curl over his forehead. Illya wants to touch them, push them back so Napoleon will look at him, smile at him, smooth the frown from his forehead. Illya wants more than that, like a punch to the gut, making his breath catch as it coalesces deep in his belly, the other ways he wants Napoleon. 

Napoleon looks over at him, frown deepening. "Peril, you're staring," he informs him. 

Illya tears his eyes away. He needs to go, leave, get rid of this before it overwhelms him, but he can't leave Napoleon like this, lost and hurt. He sits up, struggling to think of anything that he can do, when Napoleon puts a hand on his arm. "Peril?"

He meets Napoleon's eyes, and Napoleon says, "Oh," and smiles. Illya's hands are shaking and Napoleon can feel it, has to be feeling it, but all Napoleon does is rub a thumb over his skin before leaning over and kissing him. 

He's warm and his lips are dry and Illya wants him, kissing him back because it's the only thing to hold on to while he's drowning. The ice has cracked and he's definitely sinking down, but it's warm and not cold here, and Napoleon's hand is on his neck, thumb stroking Illya's skin so distractingly he can't think of anything else. He pushes Napoleon down into the pillows, following after his mouth, and Napoleon's hand slides over his shoulder and down his back. 

It feels good, so good, Illya wants more. It's easy to get his hands on Napoleon as they kiss, to strip him of the few clothes he's still wearing, silk sliding easily from Napoleon's skin. He makes a protesting sound and tugs on Illya's sweater. It feels too hot, now, too much, and Illya rids himself of it, pulling it over his head as he straddles Napoleon's hips. Napoleon looks up at him, smiling and licking his lips, and then his hands are on Illya's chest, Napoleon fitting one palm over the dark bruises on his left side. 

Illya puts his own hand over Napoleon's, pushes to feel the pressure. The ache is faint but welcome, anchoring him a little, slowing down the racing of his heart. Napoleon raises an eyebrow, finally says, "Really, Peril?"

He shakes his head and leans in for another kiss, silencing them both. Napoleon kisses dirtily, all tongue and teeth, making Illya's lips tingle, making him chase the feeling until all he can think about is Napoleon under him. His erection strains against his pants, and those have to go too, but he doesn't want to move away from this. 

It's Napoleon who breaks the kiss, breathing hard against his mouth. "You need to take those clothes off, Peril, for this to go anywhere interesting."

Illya flushes at those words, at the thought of where they're going, but Napoleon is smiling, looking at him with dark eyes full of promise that Illya can't tear himself away from. He shifts awkwardly, fumbling with his trousers as he gets off Napoleon, and it threatens to ground him, to put him back on both his feet when he doesn't want to think at all. 

Napoleon's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him down to the mattress, helping him out of the trousers. Illya lets Napoleon undo his belt and lifts his hips, letting him tug Illya's pants off, and then he is naked, Napoleon's skin against his own as he fits himself along Illya's side. The hard, hot line of Napoleon's cock against his bare hip makes his breath catch, makes him start. He pulls Napoleon in for a kiss. "I…"

"Hmmm?" Napoleon kisses his neck, sucking a little on Illya's skin when he gets low enough, and the pressure makes him shiver. He slides his hand into Napoleon's hair, silky between his fingers, and he can't stop a moan when Napoleon bites down. 

"Christ, Peril, keep making that noise," Napoleon says, doing it again and again until Illya is breathless with how good it feels. 

"Cowboy." He can't get anything more out, doesn't know what to say, but Napoleon lifts his head before licking at the bite marks and blowing on them, like they're injuries he needs to soothe. The cold raises goose bumps on his skin.

Illya tugs on him, wanting him, and Napoleon comes up with a grin and kisses him again, slow, unhurried, like they're not both hard. Illya doesn't understand how he can seem so calm. "I want to use my mouth on you," Napoleon says, looking utterly ravishing, his hair falling over his forehead, his mouth red and shining. 

Illya kisses him again, cupping the back of his head before biting Napoleon's lower lip, and he can feel the full body shudder that goes through Napoleon at that. "Yes," he says against Napoleon's mouth, "do that."

Then Napoleon smiles and shifts down, taking the covers with him so that Illya can see as Napoleon settles between his legs. Illya watches as he leans in, and the first touch of Napoleon's mouth has him struggling to stay still, perfect heat and suction making his mind white out. Napoleon says something but Illya fails to translate it, lost in the deep pleasure of seeing him like this. Then Napoleon is back, taking him into his mouth, fist wrapped around the base, and it's fast and dirty, lips and tongue, hot and wet. He lets himself be lost to it, losing control of the English language, remembering to give Napoleon advance warning in gasped out Russian, and Napoleon pulls off in time to stroke him through it. 

Illya comes hard, the bliss overtaking everything and he closes his eyes, giving himself over to the pleasure that's suffusing his body. When he comes back to himself, Napoleon is stretched out next to him, hand lazily stroking Illya's chest. "You are truly delectable, Peril."

He flushes, but he smiles, the bliss making him forgiving of Napoleon's ridiculousness. He cups Napoleon's cheek, rubbing a finger over his stubble before pulling him in for another kiss, showing Napoleon his appreciation in actions rather than words. Napoleon shifts against him with a hint of impatience, and Illya slides his hand down over Napoleon's side to his hip. "I hope you are not expecting something like that."

Napoleon frowns, puzzled, and then smiles. "Peril, you are a delight no matter what we get up to."

It's a hollow compliment so Illya ignores it, curling his hand around Napoleon's erection instead. Napoleon sighs, closing his eyes, leaning into him as he breathes heavily. Illya slides his hand experimentally over Napoleon's long length, sliding his thumb over the tip to feel him twitch, and then back down to elicit a moan as he tightens his grip. He learns Napoleon as he works, the firmness he likes, the way he shivers when Illya teases the sensitive tip with gentle touches, and then when he slides his hand down and dips his fingers between Napoleon's legs to cup his balls, Napoleon moans, pushing into his touch with an urgency he was holding in check before. 

He's beautiful, blatant in his pleasure, becoming undone at Illya's hand, the sounds he's making stirring something deep in Illya's belly. He thinks he wants to do this again, many times, until he can remember it forever. 

"Peril, yes, that," Napoleon murmurs, chasing Illya's touch, and he does it again to reward him, and then again and again until Napoleon moans and spills over his hand, sighing blissfully. 

They're both catching their breath before Illya shifts, feeling the sheets stick to his skin. He wipes his soiled hand on the bed sheets and starts to sit up. 

Napoleon tugs at his arm, making a soft noise. "Not yet, come back."

Illya lies back down, Napoleon curling into his side with a sigh of satisfaction, his head against Illya's arm. His dark curls are bright against Illya's skin, and Illya reaches over to touch, soft under his fingers. Napoleon's eyes are closed, his face having lost some of the tightness Illya has been seeing all week. As he watches him, lines appear around Napoleon's eyes as he smiles.

"You know," Napoleon starts, "you really do have a--"

"Do not say fixation," Illya tells him. 

Napoleon laughs softly. "Your secret's safe with me, Peril."

\--

When he wakes it is light outside, peeking through a gap in the curtains, and Illya sits up when he realises he's alone in bed. 

"Right here." Napoleon's voice draws his eyes to where he sits at the table, dressed in his robe and pyjamas.

Illya looks at his watch. A little past seven. He must have slept deeply not to have noticed Napoleon leaving the bed. "Couldn't sleep?"

Napoleon shrugs. "I slept for a while."

Illya nods in understanding. He reaches for his clothes, pulling on his pants. 

"Are you going?" Napoleon asks. 

He looks up, unsure after the shift between them. "Do you want me to go?" Napoleon shakes his head. The circles under his eyes are fading, but he still looks too tired. Then Illya's gaze falls on the table and he freezes. Spread haphazardly over the small wooden surface are the colour photographs he gave Napoleon several days ago. 

He shifts his gaze to Napoleon, who looks back at him. "I should burn them," he says. Illya nods, agreeing. But when Napoleon picks up the lighter and strikes a flame, he uses it only to light a cigarette. His hand shakes a little when he takes a drag but the smoke seems to settle him. "He was a megalomaniac."

Illya breathes out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

"At first he wouldn't stop talking. I keep hearing his voice." Napoleon's mouth twists bitterly as he blows out the smoke and looks up at Illya, never moving from the chair. "I can deal with reliving what he did. It's everything else… He had Victoria convinced."

Illya frowns, finally breaking the flow. "Convinced of what?"

"That he was some sort of overseer of torture, during the war." Napoleon pushes the photos to one side and pulls the ashtray towards himself to tap ash from the end of the cigarette. "I don't know what's worse, that he was crazy enough to think he was, or that there was no such answer to those horrors."

Illya goes over slowly, pulling up a chair and helping himself to a cigarette. He lights it quietly. 

Napoleon looks away. "He was proud of himself. Talked about how he'd learned to inspire fear in people." He sighs. "He seemed to have deluded himself that he was the inspiration for everything that happened in the camps. I didn't need to revisit that nightmare."

"Were you there?"

Napoleon shakes his head. "No. But I saw the pictures. Read the statements. Heard some of the witnesses in court." He blows out smoke, watching it curl towards the ceiling. "It wasn't like that. There wasn't one person to blame. There were so many."

Illya nods quietly.

"To hear him claim those horrors as his own and be proud of it…" Napoleon's voice trails off.

Illya feels very young, suddenly. "I'm sorry."

Napoleon shakes his head and stubs out the cigarette, picking up another. His hands are still unsteady and Illya takes the lighter, cupping his hand around Napoleon's and lighting the cigarette for him. 

"Thank you," Napoleon says softly. 

They smoke silently for a while, until Illya stubs out his own cigarette and doesn't help himself to another. 

"It fades." Napoleon breaks the silence, looking at him. "You are right about that. But it changes you. It's never the pain, because there is always a point where it just can't get worse. It's in between, when you start to want to make bargains."

Illya nods. "That's why they teach us not to talk."

"It didn't matter that I was silent. He was talking anyway. Every time I go to sleep, I hear his voice, telling me about all the horrors he delighted in, showing me all the things he'd done." He glances towards the pictures.

Illya gets up, leaning against the table in front of Napoleon. He reaches out to cup Napoleon's cheek, making him look up. "You didn't break. You can be proud of that."

Napoleon shivers. "It isn't enough."

"No," Illya says gently, "but it's something to hold onto for now."

Napoleon leans forward with a sigh and Illya pulls him in, letting Napoleon rest his head against Illya's stomach. He strokes his hand through Napoleon's hair. They stay like that for a long time, until Napoleon finally pulls back. Illya lets him go. 

Napoleon clears his throat. "Thanks, Peril."

He squeezes Napoleon's shoulder, then pushes off from the table and gathers the photographs and the negatives. He hands Napoleon the lighter. "Come."

Napoleon stands, taking it from Illya's hands, and follows him over to the fireplace. 

"You should be the one to do it," Illya says softly as he stacks the pictures and the negatives in the grate. 

It takes two tries for Napoleon to make the lighter work, but this time, Illya doesn't help to steady his hands. The flame catches quickly, curling up the paper, burning and warping the ink. They watch as the celluloid of the negatives starts to shrivel and melt. It takes only a few minutes before everything is destroyed. 

Napoleon stands up. Illya takes a step closer, but Napoleon shakes his head. "I… If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone for a while."

Illya nods. He retrieves the rest of his clothes and his shoes, feeling Napoleon's eyes on him as he leaves the room. 

\--

The next time he sees Napoleon it's on the front steps of the hotel as they wait for Gaby and their taxi to the airport. Napoleon is wearing his sunglasses, smiling in the Istanbul sun. He has the beginnings of a tan, which won't last once they're in London. Illya thinks he likes the look of Napoleon in the sunshine, like a cat sunning itself.

"All packed, Peril?"

"Yes." He puts his case down on the steps. 

"Gaby said she'd just be a minute. Apparently there was a wardrobe mishap of some sort."

Illya nods. The sunlight is pleasant on his skin, making him feel warm and a little lazy. Downtime will be nice, especially since it's well earned. 

"Peril," Napoleon says with just enough hesitation in his voice to make Illya look over at him, catching the tilt of Napoleon's head. "I was thinking."

"Yes?"

"Once we get to London, I really should cook you dinner. As a thank you and all that."

Something tugs in Illya's chest, uncomfortable at the thought of putting distance between himself and Napoleon. "I would like that," he replies, surprised at how steady his voice is. 

Napoleon smiles and turns his face back up to the sun, catching the last rays as they hear Gaby's heels click on the steps. Illya turns to offer to help her with her suitcase. 

"I can carry my own case, Illya," she replies as they're walking towards the car, but she's smiling. 

"Don't insult the lady, Peril," Napoleon says behind him, and then cuts ahead to open the car door for Gaby. "After you, Miss Teller."

Illya puts their suitcases in the trunk, slamming the lid shut before claiming the passenger seat. In the back of the car, Napoleon is telling Gaby about the time he used a taxi as a getaway car. Illya leans his head back against the seat and tunes them out, letting their voices wash over him without listening to the words. Gaby laughs at something, and Napoleon laughs in turn. 

Illya could get used to this.

_finis_.


End file.
